The Copper Lung

The brass lungs of the tower inhale the salt-heavy mist, gears ground smooth by the friction of a thousand identical sunsets.

Copper teeth bite into the hour, a slow mastication of seconds spat out as vibrations in the floorboards of the sleeping town.

High above the whitecaps, the pendulum swings—a heavy blade carving the air into thin slices of "was" and "will be."

The keeper is long gone, leaving only the scent of oil and the steady, rhythmic heartbeat of a machine that forgot how to stop.